Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

L ionel tossed aside the bedclothes and strode to the window. The room felt unbearably hot, the air clinging to his body, stifling him. He flung the windows wide and leaned, hands on the windowsill, breathing deeply.

His thoughts were all on Cecilia. The windows of his bedchamber looked northward, out over the Thorn Wood and the dark humped shape of the hills beyond. But his bedchamber occupied the top floor of a square Norman-built tower that protruded beyond the reach of the highest of the castle's roofs. As such, there were windows facing both north and south. He looked back over his shoulder. The south windows were curtained but he knew the view those thick folds of fabric hid. They hid the south wing, which rose beyond the bulk of the Great Hall. And he knew which of the many windows of the south wing looked into Cecilia's bedchamber. She had broken down his defenses earlier. Those walls that he had considered unbreachable had crumbled at the sight of her in the silk wedding gown he'd commissioned for her.

Why had he done that? What was his goal in supplying her with a dress which so enhanced her beauty? Better by far to insist she attended the ceremony in the dress she had borrowed from his maid. Or to attend in rags. Her callous relatives would probably have approved of the humiliation too.

Yet, Lionel had ordered a dressmaker to go to Hamilton Hall and had told the man to create something the like of which had never been seen before. The dressmaker had been a master and had excelled himself in his craft. Lionel cursed himself now. When he was away from Cecilia, he fancied he could forget her. But it never lasted long. There was much work to be done, a revenge against the Count of Thorpe to be planned. He had no room in his mind for Cecilia and yet she had taken up residence there, commandeering his heart. The encounter between them among the trees was indelibly seared into his memory. The sight of his mark upon her perfect breast and the pride in her face at being so marked. He had wanted to take her there and then, make her his in truth.

But, he had held back, recognizing the danger he was in. He had stepped away from her, stiffly insisting they go inside and then handing her to a lady's maid with orders that she be escorted to her rooms, while Cecilia had covered her torn dress with her veil rather astutely.

Sleep had been looked for but not found. His mind raced through all the encounters he'd had with his new bride. He remembered the feel of her skin and the taste of her mouth. The sight of her naked breasts and the wanton way that she had licked her fingers after touching breasts still wet from his tongue. She was veritably a temptress and his body ached for her.

But no, revenge was more important. Arthur was owed that revenge. Thorpe could not be allowed to remain free from justice. It was Lionel's duty and it came before everything. There could be no happiness or contentment for him until it was finished.

Just then, he realized that he had thought of Cecilia in terms of happiness and contentment.

With an audible groan, he whirled from the north window and strode across the room towards the south. Such was his passion that he momentarily forgot the pain in his stiffness that plagued his legs, singly or both at the same time. He tore aside the curtains and stared at the south wing.

It was dark except for a single, flickering, glowing light. That light emanated from Cecilia's bedchamber. So, she too found sleep elusive. He pulled the curtains back, hiding the view, and turned his back on the window. But he could not unsee that flickering light, that sign that she was there and was awake. He wondered if she had tried to sleep but, like him, had been plagued by thoughts of lust and desire. By memories of those occasions when they had both given in to the irresistible attraction that drew them together.

Finally, he could bear it no longer. Snatching a dressing gown from a wardrobe, he left the room to walk barefoot through the icy hallways of the castle. The pain in his legs, unsupported by the structure he wore during the day, was pushed aside and Lionel moved like an arrow towards the south wing.

As he neared the rooms he had provided for Cecilia, he became aware of another sound in the silent hallways. Pausing, he listened and made out the distinctive sound of bare feet padding against stone. Cecilia was also abroad. He turned corners, passed through darkened rooms, and traversed staircases, following that sound. Eventually, he came to a small courtyard of untended grass and wildflowers. By daylight, it was an oasis of color amid the drab stone of the castle. An oak tree rose from the middle of the courtyard, its branches thick, its bole wide and ancient. A breeze sighed through the branches and stirred the long grass, carrying the scent of the wildflowers with it. Lionel paused in the shadow of a colonnade which overlooked the courtyard from the north side. A figure in white flitted through the grass ahead of him. For a moment it was as though he watched a ghost—Thornhill was rumored to contain many restless spirits, including that of a young nun who had resided at the convent that had stood there before the castle had been built.

That convent had been razed by the Danes, in the days of King Alfred. Now Lionel watched the ethereal figure before him and felt like one of those marauding reavers. She wore a sheet wrapped around her, leaving only her shoulders bare. From time to time she reached out to cup a flower, bending to savor its bouquet. Then she moved on, letting the long blades of grass tickle her fingers. Lionel wanted to bear her to the ground and tear the sheet and nightdress from her body. Wanted her to tear his own nightshirt to shreds and fasten her nails upon his flesh. He thought of the mark she bore and wondered if she felt the same giddy thrill at its presence as he did. Thrilled at both marking her and being marked himself.

"Cecilia," he spoke into the still night air.

She glanced back over her shoulder and the sheet slipped. In the moonlight, her skin was alabaster, pure and unsullied. Her hair appeared dark, robbed of the bronze sheen that it possessed in daylight. She looked like a phantom, a succubus intent on seduction, dangerous in the desire she invoked.

Cecilia bit her lower lip as she beheld him, then let the sheet fall further. It whispered to the ground, held up only on one side of her body now. Her arm was bare and he could see the suggestion of her derrière through the sheer fabric of the nightdress. Lionel drifted forward and she turned to face him, discarding the sheet entirely, standing with her arms by her sides and her chin lifted. When he reached her, he put his hands to her shoulders, pulling aside the straps that held her nightgown up. Gently, he glided them down her arms. The material fell from her chest, revealing her perfectly round breasts. It gathered about her hips, and she made to push it further, her breathing growing frantic and heavy.

Lionel stilled her hands, holding them out from her sides, then pushing the nightgown down her hips himself. It fell to the ground and she kicked it aside. He gazed into her eyes, rendered almost black by the darkness. He teetered on the edge of a precipice, standing on the brink of a void as black as her eyes looked. Within was the unknown. It was not a future he had planned for himself. He could turn around and walk away, return to the path he had chosen. Or he could step off the edge and into the darkness. She was there, within that void, and together, he felt, they would fill it, make a life together. Would there be room in that life for revenge? Would a woman be capable of maintaining the thirst for vengeance that he had nurtured for several years? Or would she steer him to forgiveness, love, and family? All thoughts fled as Cecilia took his hand and pressed it to her breast, the one bearing his mark. She smiled timidly and reached for the laces of his nightshirt, leaving his hand to caress her breast, drawing soft moans from her.

Soon, his own shirt was being hauled up over his head and tossed aside. He drew closer, kissing her ferociously and lifting her with arms locked about her waist. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her nipples hard, announcing her arousal. He hungrily consumed her body with his touch, hands exploring her soft curves and perfect skin. Their lips met and then parted before meeting again, always with increasing hunger. Cecilia's toes left the ground as Lionel lifted her. Then the long grass embraced them both. Lionel felt it tickling at his sides but the sensation was as nothing compared to Cecilia's touch. He lay atop her, holding himself on powerful forearms planted in the earth to either side of her face. Lionel looked down at her, taking in the desperate longing in her eyes. His body pressed against hers and cried out for union.

She was his wife.

But in name only.

If they did this, it would be as lovers. Perhaps not in the eyes of the law but certainly in the eyes of God. Neither had meant their vows. He hadn't. Had he?

Cecilia reached up to cup his face in her hands, lifting her head to kiss him. As she did, some instinct in her virginal body told her to lift her feet from where they had been pressed against the damp earth. Lionel felt his own body joining with hers as she did so, almost without conscious intent by him. The feeling was glorious. Cecilia's eyes went wide and she cried out in pain and wonder, equally. She clutched at him, arms going beneath his shoulders and fingers digging into his flesh. She lifted her legs further as Lionel's hips thrust forward, deepening the union between them. That brought another cry from Cecilia but her embrace was so fierce that he could not withdraw, even if he wanted to. Had she meant her own vows? Was this an elaborate plot to entrap him? A beautiful young woman to ensnare his heart, derail his plans, carve up his estates? He whispered her name and heard his own return. She smiled, and then her lips pulled back from bared teeth. The grimace of both pleasure and pain. The smile returned as she gazed up at the sky, open, joyous wonder alive on her face.

The castle spun away from Lionel.

He had no more awareness of where he was than the few yards of earth on which they lay. The grass rose above them and enclosed them. The tree watched over them, boughs softly moving in unfelt breezes. Lionel felt heat between them where their skin joined and their bodies merged. Sweat slicked his chest and glistened between Cecilia's breasts. The air against his back was cool except where her nails raked it, drawing grunting groans from him and a tight smile of satisfied desire from her. She turned her head from side to side, biting his fingers and thumb, sucking, and watching the reaction on his face. Lionel was lost in a world of sensuous delight, unending pleasure.

Her fulfillment came suddenly, an increase in the tempo of her movements, her cries becoming more frantic, eyes widening until her legs clamped around his hips, squeezing tight. He felt a shuddering in her thighs and she threw back her head, clawing at the ground and mewling before finally crying out in a voice that echoed and rebounded from the stern walls of the castle that surrounded the courtyard. His own climax came soon after, and then they were limp, laying together, arms and legs draped over and under each other.